Rienmund was a handsome young opportunist, with a fairly good education. Originally a man of some character he was being daily forced by his anomalous position into devious ways of acting and thinking. He was a bad man now, as men go. At thirty he had none of the virtues which either native Americans or Jews are taught to think admirable. But he got his pictures out in time and by manifesting an almost homosexual fixation on Stahr, seemed to have dulled Stahr’s usual acuteness. Stahr liked him — considered him a good all around man.
Wylie White, of course, would have been recognizable in any country as an intellectual of the second order. He was civilized and voluble, both simple and acute, half dazed half saturnine. His jealousy of Stahr showed only in unguarded flashes, and was mingled with admiration and even affection.
“The production date for this picture is two weeks from Saturday,” said Stahr. “I think basically it’s all right — much improved.”
Rienmund and the two writers exchanged a glance of congratulation.
“Except for one thing,” said Stahr, thoughtfully. “I don’t see why it should be produced at all and I’ve decided to put it away.”
There was a moment of shocked silence — and then murmurs of protest, stricken queries.
“It’s not your fault,” Stahr said. “I thought there was something there that wasn’t there — that was all.” He hesitated, looking regretfully at Rienmund. “It’s too bad — it was a good play. We paid fifty thousand for it.”
“What’s the matter with it, Monroe?” asked Broaca bluntly.
“Well, it hardly seems worth while to go into it,” said Stahr.
Rienmund and Wylie White were both thinking of the professional effect on them. Rienmund had two pictures to his account this year — but Wylie White needed a credit to start his comeback to the scene. Rose Meloney was watching Stahr closely from little skull-like eyes.
“Couldn’t you give us some clue?” Rienmund asked. “This is a good deal of a blow, Monroe.”
“I just wouldn’t put Margaret Sullavan in it,” said Stahr. “Or Colman either. I wouldn’t advise them to play it -”
“Specifically, Monroe,” begged Wylie White. “What didn’t you like? The scenes? the dialogue? the humor? construction?”
Stahr picked up the script from his desk, let it fall as if it were physically too heavy to handle.
“I don’t like the people,” he said. “I wouldn’t like to meet them — if I knew they were going to be somewhere I’d go somewhere else.”
Rienmund smiled but there was worry in his eyes.
“Well, that’s a damning criticism,” he said. “I thought the people were rather interesting.”
“So did I,” said Broaca. “I thought Em was very sympathetic.”
“Did you?” asked Stahr sharply. “I could just barely believe she was alive. And when I came to the end I said to myself ‘So what?’”
“There must be something to do,” Rienmund said. “Naturally we feel bad about this. This is the structure we agreed on -”
“But it’s not the story,” said Stahr. “I’ve told you many times that the first thing I decide is the kind of story I want. We change in every other regard but once that is set we’ve got to work toward it with every line and movement. This is not the kind of a story I want. The story we bought had shine and glow — it was a happy story. This is all full of doubt and hesitation. The hero and heroine stop loving each other over trifles — then they start up again over trifles. After the first sequence you don’t care if she never sees him again or he her.”
“That’s my fault,” said Wylie suddenly. “You see, Monroe, I don’t think stenographers have the same dumb admiration for their bosses they had in 1929. They’ve been laid off — they’ve seen their bosses jittery. The world has moved on, that’s all.”
Stahr looked at him impatiently, gave a short nod.
“That’s not under discussion,” he said. “The premise of this story is that the girl did have dumb admiration for her boss if you want to call it that. And there wasn’t any evidence that he’d ever been jittery. When you make her doubt him in any way you have a different kind of story. Or rather you haven’t anything at all. These people are extraverts — get that straight — and I want them to extravert all over the lot. When I want to do a Eugene O’Neill play I’ll buy one.”
Rose Meloney who had never taken her eyes off Stahr knew it was going to be all right now. If he had really been going to abandon the picture he wouldn’t have gone at it like this. She had been in this game longer than any of them except Broaca with whom she had had a three day affair twenty years ago.
Stahr turned to Rienmund.
“You ought to have understood from the casting, Rieny, what kind of a picture I wanted. I started marking the lines that Carroll and MacMurray couldn’t say and got tired of it. Remember this in future — if I order a limousine I want that kind of car. And the fastest midget racer you ever saw wouldn’t do. Now -” He looked around. “Shall we go any farther? Now that I’ve told you I don’t even like the kind of picture this is? Shall we go on? We’ve got two weeks. At the end of that time I’m going to put Carroll and MacMurray into this or something else — is it worth while?”
“Well naturally,” said Rienmund, “I think it is. I feel bad about this. I should have warned Wylie. I thought he had some good ideas.”
“Monroe’s right,” said Broaca bluntly. “I felt this was wrong all the time but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”
Wylie and Rose looked at him contemptuously and exchanged a glance.
“Do you writers think you can get hot on it again?” asked Stahr, not unkindly. “Or shall I try somebody fresh?”
“I’d like another shot,” said Wylie.
“How about you, Rose?”
She nodded briefly.
“What do you think of the girl?” asked Stahr.
“Well — naturally I’m prejudiced in her favor.”
“You better forget it,” said Stahr warningly. “Ten million Americans would put thumbs down on that girl if she walked on the screen. We’ve got an hour and twenty-five minutes on the screen — you show a woman being unfaithful to a man for one-third of that time and you’ve given the impression that she’s one-third whore.”
“Is that a big proportion?” asked Rose slyly, and they laughed.
“It is for me,” said Stahr thoughtfully, “even if it wasn’t for the Hays office. If you want to paint a scarlet letter on her back it’s all right but that’s another story. Not this story. This is a future wife and mother. However — however -”
He pointed his pencil at Wylie White.
“- this has as much passion as that Oscar on my desk.”
“What the hell!” said Wylie. “She’s full of it. Why she goes to -”
“She’s loose enough,” said Stahr, “- but that’s all. There’s one scene in the play better than all this you cooked up and you’ve left it out. When she’s trying to make the time pass by changing her watch.”
“It didn’t seem to fit,” Wylie apologized.
“Now,” said Stahr, “I’ve got about fifty ideas. I’m going to call Miss Doolan.” He pressed a button. “- and if there’s anything you don’t understand speak up -”
Miss Doolan slid in almost imperceptibly. Pacing the floor swiftly Stahr began. In the first place he wanted to tell them what kind of a girl she was — what kind of a girl he approved of here. She was a perfect girl with a few small faults as in the play but a perfect girl not because the public wanted her that way but because it was the kind of girl that he, Stahr, liked to see in this sort of picture. Was that clear? It was no character role. She stood for health, vitality, ambition and love. What gave the play its importance was entirely a situation in which she found herself. She became possessed of a secret that affected a great many lives. There was a right thing and a wrong thing to do — at first it was not plain which was which but when it was she went right away and did it. That was the kind of stor
y this was — thin, clean and shining. No doubts.
“She has never heard the word labor troubles,” he said with a sigh. “She might be living in 1929. Is it plain what kind of girl I want?”
“It’s very plain, Monroe.”
“Now about the things she does,” said Stahr. “At all times, at all moments when she is on the screen in our sight she wants to sleep with Ken Willard. Is that plain, Wylie?”
“Passionately plain.”
“Whatever she does it is in place of sleeping with Ken Willard. If she walks down the street she is walking to sleep with Ken Willard, if she eats her food it is to give her strength to sleep with Ken Willard. But at no time do you give the impression that she would ever consider sleeping with Ken Willard unless they were properly sanctified. I’m ashamed of having to tell you these kindergarten facts but they have somehow leaked out of the story.”
He opened the script and began to go through it page by page. Miss Doolan’s notes would be typed in quintuplicate and given to them but Rose Meloney made notes of her own. Broaca put his hand up to his half closed eyes — he could remember “when a director was something out here,” when writers were gag men or eager and ashamed young reporters full of whiskey — a director was all there was then. No supervisor — no Stahr.
He started wide awake as he heard his name.
“It would be nice, John, if you could put the boy on a pointed roof and let him walk around and keep the camera on him. You might get a nice feeling — not danger, not suspense, not pointing for anything — a kid on the roof in the morning.”
Broaca brought himself back in the room.
“All right,” he said. “- just an element of danger.”
“Not exactly,” said Stahr. “He doesn’t start to fall off the roof. Break into the next scene with it.”
“Through the window,” suggested Rose Meloney. “He could climb in his sister’s window.”
“That’s a good transition,” said Stahr. “Right into the diary scene.”
Broaca was wide awake now.
“I’ll shoot up at him,” he said. “Let him go away from the camera. Just a fixed shot from quite a distance — let him go away from the camera. Don’t follow him. Pick him up in a close shot and let him go away again. No attention on him except against the whole roof and the sky.” He liked the shot — it was a director’s shot that didn’t come up on every page any more. He might use a crane — it would be cheaper in the end than building the roof on the ground with a process sky. That was one thing about Stahr — the literal sky was the limit. He had worked with Jews too long to believe legends that they were small with money.
“In the third sequence have him hit the priest,” Stahr said. “What!” Wylie cried, “- and have the Catholics on our neck.” “I’ve talked to Joe Breen. Priests have been hit. It doesn’t reflect on them.”
His quiet voice ran on — stopped abruptly as Miss Doolan glanced at the clock.
“Is that too much to do before Monday?” he asked Wylie. Wylie looked at Rose and she looked back not even bothering to nod. He saw their week-end melting away, but he was a different man from when he entered the room. When you were paid fifteen hundred a week emergency work was one thing you did not skimp, nor when your picture was threatened. As a “free lance” writer Wylie had failed from lack of caring but here was Stahr to care, for all of them. The effect would not wear off when he left the office — not anywhere within the walls of the lot. He felt a great purposefulness. The mixture of common sense, wise sensibility, theatrical ingenuity, and a certain half naive conception of the common weal which Stahr had just stated aloud, inspired him to do his part, to get his block of stone in place, even if the effort were foredoomed, the result as dull as a pyramid.
Out the window Rose Meloney watched the trickle streaming toward the commissary. She would have her lunch in her office and knit a few rows while it came. The man was coming at one-fifteen with the French perfume smuggled over the Mexican border. That was no sin — it was like prohibition.
Broaca watched as Rienmund fawned upon Stahr. He sensed that Rienmund was on his way up — not yet. He received seven hundred and fifty a week for his partial authority over directors, writers and stars who got much more. He wore a cheap English shoe he bought near the Beverly Wilshire and Broaca hoped they hurt his feet, but soon now he would order his shoes from Peal’s and put away his little green alpine hat with a feather. Broaca was years ahead of him. He had a fine record in the war but he had never felt quite the same with himself since he had let Ike Franklin strike him in the face with his open hand.
There was smoke in the room and behind it, behind his great desk Stahr was withdrawing further and further, in all courtesy, still giving Rienmund an ear and Miss Doolan an ear. The conference was over.
[Stahr was to have received the Danish Prince Agge, who “wanted to learn about pictures from the Beginning” and who in the author’s cast of characters is described as an “early Fascist.” — Edmund Wilson’s explanation note]
“Any messages?”
“Mr. Robinson called in,” Miss Doolan said, as he started for the commissary. “One of the women told him her name but he’s forgotten it — he thinks it was Smith or Brown or Jones.”
“That’s a great help.”
“And he remembers she says she just moved to Los Angeles.”
“I remember she had a silver belt,” Stahr said, “with stars cut out of it.”
“I’m still trying to find out more about Pete Zavras. I talked to his wife.”
“What did she say?”
“Oh, they’ve had an awful time — given up their house — she’s been sick -”
“Is the eye trouble hopeless?”
“She didn’t seem to know anything about the state of his eyes. She didn’t even know he was going blind.”
“That’s funny.”
He thought about it on the way to luncheon but it was as confusing as the actor’s trouble this morning. Troubles about people’s health didn’t seem within his range — he gave no thought to his own. In the lane beside the commissary he stepped back as an open electric truck crammed with girls in the bright costumes of the regency came rolling in from the back lot. The dresses were fluttering in the wind, the young painted faces looked at him curiously and he smiled as it went by.
Episode 10
Eleven men and their guest Prince Agge sat at lunch in the private dining room of the studio commissary. They were the money men — they were the rulers and unless there was a guest they ate in broken silence, sometimes asking questions about each other’s wives and children, sometimes discharging a single absorption from the forefront of their consciousness. Eight out of the ten were Jews — five of the ten were foreign born, including a Greek and an Englishman — and they had all known each other for a long time: there was a rating in the group, from old Marcus down to old Leanbaum who had bought the most fortunate block of stock in the business and never was allowed to spend over a million a year producing.
Old Marcus functioned with disquieting resilience. Some never-atrophying instinct warned him of danger, of gangings up against him — he was never so dangerous himself as when others considered him surrounded. His grey face had attained such immobility that even those who were accustomed to watch the reflex of the inner corner of his eye could no longer see it — nature had grown a little white whisker there to conceal it; his armor was complete.
As he was the oldest, Stahr was the youngest of the group — not by many years at this date, though he had first sat with most of these men when he was a boy wonder of twenty-two. Then, more than now, he had been a money man among money men. Then he had been able to figure costs in his head with a speed and accuracy that dazzled them — for they were not wizards or even experts in that regard, despite the popular conception of Jews in finance. Most of them owed their success to different and incompatible qualities. But in a group a tradition carries along the less adept, and they were content to look at
Stahr for the sublimated auditing and experience a sort of glow as if they had done it themselves like rooters at a football game.
Stahr, as will presently be seen, had grown away from that particular gift, though it was always there.
Prince Agge sat between Stahr and Mort Flieshacker the company lawyer and across from Joe Popolous the theatre owner. He was hostile to Jews in a vague general way that he tried to cure himself of. As a turbulent man, serving his time in the Foreign Legion, he thought that Jews were too fond of their own skins. But he was willing to concede that they might be different in America under different circumstances, and certainly he found Stahr was much of a man in every way. For the rest — he thought most business men were dull dogs — for final reference he reverted always to the blood of Bernadotte in his veins.
My father — I will call him Mr. Brady as Prince Agge did when he told me of this luncheon — was worried about a picture and when Leanbaum went out early he came up and took his chair opposite.
“How about the South America picture idea, Monroe?” he asked.
Prince Agge noticed a blink of attention toward them as distinct as if a dozen pair of eyelashes had made the sound of batting wings. Then silence again.
“We’re going ahead with it,” said Stahr.
“With that same budget?” Brady asked.
Stahr nodded.
“It’s out of proportion,” said Brady. “There won’t be any miracle in these bad times — no ‘Hell’s Angels’ or ‘Ben-Hur’ when you throw it away and get it back.”
Probably the attack was planned, for Popolous, the Greek, took up the matter in a sort of double talk that reminded Prince Agge of Mike Van Dyke except that it tried to be and succeeded in being clear instead of confusing.
Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated) Page 121